


all the time we thought we did

by tatou



Series: felt like mine [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, i still don't know what I'm doing lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:59:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tatou/pseuds/tatou
Summary: The shadow slid along the wall larger than Peter himself could ever hope to be, so swift it nearly seemed violent; formless, it moved as a thick black slash across the red wall. His breath snatched from his throat, Killian stumbled, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck thrilling in inexplicable terror.Peter must have heard him staggering; he was at Killian’s front in seconds, re-emerging from the dark with his touch feathering Killian’s shoulders, his chest, his face, searching him out to grasp and lead to safety. “Come. We’re almost to my room.”By the time Killian blinked and got his wild eyes to focus the shadow had rearranged itself to match the boy’s figure perfectly, and no longer moved alone.





	all the time we thought we did

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caivallon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/gifts), [fuckyeahcaptainpan (ChipmunkCharles)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChipmunkCharles/gifts).



> An alternate take on, and taking place after the Neverland storyline of season 3. This is basically them living under another version of Regina’s curse, the details of which will be divulged on later. The family tree as it is in the show is kind of ignored and switched around here so Henry in this story is Regina’s son, not Emma’s. Peter and Gold are not related to the family by blood but are treated as such: Peter was taken in by Gold at a young age after being orphaned. No one but Killian and Lacey knows this- Gold has Peter call him “Uncle” to keep up with everyone else’s assumption that they’re family.
> 
> +
> 
> Fic title lifted from Broken Social Scene's "Sweetest Kill."
> 
> I've obsessed over this story for so many years now I feel like it's been with me all my life. To those of you who still come to my inbox requesting more even after all this time that's passed, here's the thing I kept promising was coming. 
> 
> Much, much love and gratitude to Caivallon, who has been with me every step of the way with boundless love, support and inspiration. And to [hookedpiper,](http://www.hookedpiper.tumblr.com) who makes that rarepair life significantly less hellish.

 

He thinks he is drowning but then he wakes up.

 

A desperate cough stifles in his throat, dying its usual ungainly death. It croaks to a scratchy gasp so that when he opens his eyes with his mouth half blurted open, his throat is left sore like with the onset of sickness.

 

A voice rings in his head, giddy with maniacal laughter. _A dead scream for a dead thing,_ it cackles.

 

Killian feels his face pinch at the sound as his eyes open, and his vision prickles slowly to clarity.

 

Emma sits on the corner of the bed pulling her jeans on one leg at a time, her back bared to him and dotted with goosebumps. It’s cold; a glance at the window shows thick frost embedded on the glass, the street below a hellish scape of heavy snowfall crusting over everything in its path. She looks at him over her shoulder with a tranquil smile, assessing his wakeful state before turning back to her task.

 

“You okay?”

 

She gets on her feet and tugs the zipper of her jeans, fitting the button neatly into place. Bare-chested, her nipples are peaked in the freezing cold, the winged impressions of her ribs swathing her sides. The bra is next, thin and plain black, then her shirt. She moves efficiently, naked and then not. Methodical in the way he’s always known her.

 

“Yes.” He pushes upright so that the blanket falls off him handless, crumpling silently around his hips as he reaches for the glass of water at the bedside. Does she know he’s hungover? His skin is just as peppered as hers with raised bumps, a light shiver jittering his shoulders. The water only makes it worse, sliding like a cold blade down his throat. He swears under his breath and twists, snatching a wrinkled long sleeve shirt off the headboard and yanking it over his head. “Just damn cold. Did you turn off the heat?”

 

Emma gives a low hum like she meant to laugh and decided not to put in the effort instead. “I lowered it just a little to wake you up.” He grunts in displeasure, breathing deep to dispel the brain fog of sleep; he like anyone else abhors waking cold. There is no dealing with the discomfort of it no matter what measures he takes to prevent it; no sweater, no scarf or thick woolen socks ever seem to help. Emma does chuckle this time, coming round to his side of the bed. “Single digit temps today. Layer up.” The ends of her hair brush his naked thigh when she leans in to kiss him, teeth already minty clean. Her curls are limp today and frayed at the ends. She must not have cared enough to style them, or she’s running late. Killian’s still too groggy to even consider checking his phone’s clock.

 

Her fingers smooth the hem of his shirt to settle it neatly where it has rumpled. “Get a hot shower. Take your time getting to work, wait for the salt trucks to do their thing. I’ll catch you later okay? Need to run.”

 

The drowsiness renews its fading grasp on him as she goes, thickening his limbs. Gravity pushes on his shoulders so that he sinks slow and clumsy back into the sheets with a goodbye murmuring low and forgotten on his tongue as his head hits the pillow. The white of the ceiling blinds him in the ugly blank of the winter morning. He closes his eyes.

 

The stink of brine lingers in his nostrils.

 

*

 

One of the vending machines in the Storybrooke police department offers hot coffee in sturdy brown paper cups. Killian’s never understood the point of these machines: surely this thing is not cleaned often enough to offer anything safe enough to ingest. ‘Dark roast,’ one of the buttons boasts as he stares at the signage, deliberating.

 

There are coffee pots just down the hall and to the left by the entrance. No doubt their contents are much more agreeable: they sit in the break room atop the snack table with paper cups and trays of bagels, donuts and cream cheese, but getting to those means wading past the small array of desks on the open floor and the officers occupying them. (He says _officers_ but really it’s the barest minimum working here- why work a full staff when there’s little to no police work to be done in a town as small and tightly knit as this?) It would mean passing his wife’s desk where she sits near the windows, the tabletop neat and plainly organized. It would mean walking past the bright little corner where Emma currently sits chatting happily with her father, and feeling their eyes barely graze him as he moves past.

 

He bites the bullet and feeds a dollar into the machine’s plastic slot. The stream of black liquid that squirts from the nozzle steams as it chugs noisily into his cup. It hardly looks appetizing, but it scalds his fingers well enough as he steps outside to pair the drink with his cigarette, the white-orange stick already prepped in one corner of his mouth. The _sntch_ of his lighter is lost to the dull roar of traffic, the flame haphazard and threatening to gutter out as he walks into the wind. The tiny burst of heat flares sweetly on his fingers, red and fierce against the snowfall; this combined with the coffee cupped in his palm could be a heaven all on its own. It takes another firm click and press of his cigarette directly into the spitting flame before it ignites. The lighter stays balled in his fist, his thumb pressed to its top to absorb the fleeting crumb of heat.

 

The morning is almost completely sunless, the sun’s meager white disc submerged deep into the fold of clouds spanning the sky’s every corner. Killian’s glad for it, hissing as the bite of cold crashes once more against his face as he walks out onto the pavement outside the sheriff’s office, walking around the side of the main building. No sun to get in his eyes as he tries losing himself in the moment, ears pricked to the heavy crush of snow under his boots, the occasional snowflakes scraping across his cheeks where his woolen scarf doesn’t stretch far enough to cover.

 

Across the street, Dr. Hopper strides past on his morning walk, Pongo leading the way with his spotted tail pointed straight. The first constant of his day: Killian knows just how today will go, as all other days have and will. He will finish his coffee and go back inside to sit with his tongue burnt at his desk in a small room, idling on his computer until the phone rings. Now and then someone will stop in to drop off or ask for paperwork. He and Emma will meet for lunch, then dinner if neither of them are out on patrol. At ten o’clock, they will close up the offices and leave for home.

 

Sometimes it’s different. Emma elects to stay late most nights, a workhorse with no load to bear: very little happens in Storybrooke that requires a sheriff’s intervention, but people will come into the office anyway with petty complaints or laden with offerings to ease the tedium of the night’s work (or lack thereof). Ruby and the basket of her Granny’s handmade pastries hooked on her arm are a near-daily presence, as is Mary Margaret, often arriving with Henry in tow and her own little assortment of edible gifts.

 

On the eastern side of the Storybrooke police station there is a little lunch area with picnic tables better suited for a summer day’s barbecue. It’s a small courtyard walled in by the wings of the building that are no longer in use, old storage rooms filled with unused evidence lockers and barely-occupied cells. There’s no threat of undue scrutiny here, just him and the blustering winds fighting to knock his vices from his hands, but even with that usual certainty Killian takes his time eyeing the dark windows for movement as he approaches.

 

They made heavy use of the courtyard all through to October this year, all gatherings and community events Killian would rather have stayed home for: a Fourth of July picnic, summer Olympics viewing parties with multiple projectors on big screens, a back to school picnic and numerous Halloween events. He’s grateful for the frozen benches and several inches of snow accumulating on the ground, but it’s hardly a deterrent: the parties are all indoors now, many of them family dinner parties at the Swann manor.

 

The gold star clipped to the front of his jacket bites at his wrist as he lifts his coffee for a sip, the metal punishingly cold. It glints at the corner of his eye as he drinks his burnt coffee, mocking him. It feels like a toy, one of those plastic wild west stars he’s seen children wear on Halloween costumes. He might as well be wearing that: this is an honorary thing, a reward for marrying the right person. A job where he reports to his father in law and drives his wife around the neighborhoods looking for nonexistent trouble and did absolutely nothing to gain the position but recite some vows.

 

“It’s a bit early for a smoke, isn’t it?” A voice calls. “Something stressing you?”

 

Killian twitches in shock. His arm jerks slightly, sloshing a bit of coffee. It splashes scalding hot across his knuckles, making him hiss as the lighter drops from his slacked grip to thump merrily into the snow. Peter trudges up to him with an amused smile, snow boots stiff and crusted as if he has been walking in the snow for hours. He certainly looks it with his nose and cheeks scraped red from the wind, but he is tugging a hat from his pocket, a plain black beanie that covers his chilled ears and flattens the soft ruffle of his side swept tresses.

 

“You shouldn’t be here.” He warns even as he gapes, eyes darting to survey their immediate surroundings. No one else is around, and the lines of traffic show no interest, but that does not stop the anxious clench of his belly.

 

Peter’s mouth quirks at the corners. His lips in the sunless morning are a pale mimicry of their usual cherry red. “You say that every time like you think it’s going to stop me.”

 

“It should.”

 

“It won’t.”

 

Fat white flakes speckle the plain cotton of Peter’s hat, the flimsy thing such an inadequate barrier against the weather that Killian feels uncomfortable looking at it, wondering just how long Peter’s been out in the snow so underprepared for the frigid drop in temperature yet to come. Sensing his dropped guard, the insolent youth takes the opportunity to swipe Killian’s coffee, inviting himself to a sip that ends rapidly in a look of distaste, nose wrinkling as he swallows. “This is shit. Ugh.”

 

Killian snorts a reluctant laugh, smoke puffing from his lips. It’s true: the nasty film the coffee left on his tongue is proof, as if the burnt stink of it wasn’t viable on its own. The look of annoyance on Peter’s face is startlingly arresting; it seems different to the other looks of irritation Killian has witnessed on that face. Far simpler than the more commonly seen odd pinch in Peter’s brow that spells of deeper dissatisfaction. “Aye, lad, it is.”

 

It isn’t a witty reply by any means but something of it has Peter beaming silently into the cup as he lets the steam fog against his face. His eyelashes close briefly on the apples of his cheeks, thick and dark: the image he cuts is so oddly beatific that it leaves Killian wondering if he misheard himself and something completely different came out of his mouth.

 

“What is it?”

 

Comes the innocuous reply: “Nothing.”

 

Peter lowers the cup, holding it securely in his palm and cradled against his chest as he drifts so their shoulders brush together. He stands there considering Killian’s profile without trying to hide it, and lifts his chin when Killian turns to meet and scrutinize in return. Too briskly the scenario has shifted against him, bare and intimate in this smattering of seconds they hold each other in close inspection. Speechless, Killian tries to ignore the severity of his deja vu, forcibly breaking apart the moment with a rough clearing of his throat and looking away.

 

There is a veil Peter keeps just behind the lush greens of his eyes. It’s obvious to Killian now that he knows to look for it- with as closely as Peter guards his demeanor, the discovery feels like a trespass. Something of it draws up an odd echo of frustration in Killian’s gut: Peter can look into him briefly and discover Killian’s every fresh and aging haunt, whereas Killian struggles to read more than what the boy’s mask wills him to.

 

Unsurprisingly, Peter notices his disquiet. His fingers curl around Killian’s sleeved arm, grasping too-lightly.

 

“I came by to see you. I wanted to see how you were doing.”

 

 _Like hell,_ Killian wants to say. His brow arches, an amused smirk forming quite of its own accord on one corner of his mouth. The gall of him, acting as if Killian needs to be checked up on. What does he think is going on here that he would assume Killian isn’t fine? “Satisfied, then? Everything in order?”

 

Peter smiles, but it’s impossibly brief, there and gone in time for the tiny crease between his brows to return.

 

This one tell would be everything if Killian only knew how to decipher it.

 

“Not quite.” Peter offers Killian his cup back. As Killian takes it with one hand, Peter quickly grabs the other, leaving Killian too breathless at the audacity of it to protest as his cigarette is then snatched away with a sly smile. The slim stick perches delicately between Peter’s fingers, the withered cherry end glowing. He takes a quick puff, holding the smoke for a spell before letting it stream out the side of his mouth. They’re holding hands like schoolyard lovers, concealed in the shadows of the building with their fingers neatly twined so that their shared body warmth is cupped between their palms. Killian has the presence of mind to know he should shrug Peter off him, but it is all so typical of Peter’s behavior when they are alone that, absurdly, it seems strange to react at all. “You’ve not been sleeping well of late, have you?”

 

A thumb strokes gently on the back of Killian’s hand. Reminding himself where they are, Killian’s fingers feel brittle when he finally pulls away, too stiff in the frigid temperatures to move willingly. He shoves his hands into his pockets, eyeing his cigarette perched on Peter’s lips. “As amusing and bewildering as it is to see you trying to nanny me, lad, I assure you I don’t need it.”

 

 _Don’t need_ **_you_ ** , he should say, but the words come to mind too late. All the same, Peter’s brow flickers in irritation, and that, too, serves to deepen the affront and the oddity of it all. As if he knows better than Killian, this young and strange boy with his habits of making all his too-personal and uncomfortably correct assumptions, putting on these airs as if he is some wizened doctor who knows what the fool patient needs.

 

“Oh, you don’t? Good, that’s a relief to hear. I’m glad you can take care of yourself.” Peter picks the cigarette from his lips, tapping away the ash. It smolders silently between his fingers; the look in his eyes is too refined to be a glower but Killian can see the ire within the green of his irises. “Too bad it won’t stop you calling me every other night at two in the bloody morning.”

 

Killian frowns. What new bold claim is this? He holds out his hand in a silent demand for his cigarette and is met with that stonewall gaze. They could be here all day daring each other like this, each one bullheaded and wanting his own way. Sighing, he drops his hand. “What.”

 

Peter mimics Killian’s raised brow, challenging him to pursue that trailing thread. “You heard me.”

 

Killian did, and he still doesn’t understand what Peter’s getting at. Paranoia creeps its fine fingers up his shoulders, its pull dragging on his jaw and he gives into it easily, makes a careful sweep of it as he lifts his head to examine the walls of long-empty windows. Again, he is satisfied that there is no one else around. “Don’t play coy, Peter. I’ve never called you.”

 

No, they communicate through worse channels: texts, sneaked looks and hurried whispers at the family functions, images and videos sent through that mortifyingly lurid app.

 

The boy scoffs and thrusts out his hand expectantly, palm up. His fingers are colored bright red in the cold. “If I was playing about this you’d know it. Give me your phone.”

 

Killian’s fallen for that one before. He gives Peter a distrustful look, retrieving the device from his back pocket and unlocking it with cold thumbs. It lingers there in his grasp for a moment, the glass screen peppering quickly with tiny crystals. Somehow he knows.

 

“Check.” Peter insists, folding his red hand back into his pocket and taking a new puff off the cigarette.

 

Killian does.

 

It shouldn’t be such a surprise. Killian never checks his call logs, not even voicemails, but there they all are, listed succinctly in the outgoing tab amongst the more acceptable names:

 

Tuesday, 10/01, **Peter:**  1:49 AM (2 hours 2 minutes)

 

Saturday, 10/21, **Peter:**  3:01 AM (1 hour 37 minutes) 

 

Friday, 12/03, **Peter:**  3:22 AM (12 minutes)

 

There are more. Dozens of them scattered amongst the more acceptable listings, going so far back that Killian stops scrolling to pinpoint the origin date, lightheaded with incertitude. The most recent call was exactly four nights ago. His jaw tightens as he scrolls through, scanning the times and dates until the numbers are meaningless. How did all this come about? Has Emma witnessed any of these calls taking place? Surely she’d have said something if she’d caught wind of this going on. Worse, how does Killian himself not remember doing any of this?

 

“That’s. This is...” He looks up and the accusation in Peter’s eyes is blunt and unforgiving. No excuse he could give would soften that blow. “I would know if I’d done this. I would remember.”

 

“I didn't say you were doing it consciously.”

 

They lapse into awkward silence. It’s a temporary, frail thing: Peter sighs out another stream of smoke, the crunch of snow under his footfalls purposeful as he shifts into the space of Killian’s chest, shielding himself from the wind. “You’ve been calling me in your sleep for months.” He breathes, softly enough that Killian lowers his head to catch the words as the boy sheds the secret from himself like a skin. “You hardly say much. Just my name, like a question. You ask where I am. You sound so lucid half the time I think you’re intending to meet with me.”

 

Killian hardly knows what to make of it. “I _don’t_ sleepwalk, if that’s what you’re implying.”

 

“I’m not implying anything. It’s the truth.” Peter lets him go, and the gentleness of it smarts. Vaguely it hits Killian that there is something happening here he cannot follow (he has learned to associate that feeling very closely with Peter’s presence). “You know I don’t mind it when you call. Never. But these are starting to get more frequent. Is something-”

 

Killian’s phone interrupts jauntily. A text message, no doubt Emma asking where he is. He pulls it from his pocket to check and Peter doesn’t bother finishing his sentence, pulling from Killian’s cigarette with his eyes cast to their feet in stony silence.

 

The text bubble bearing his wife’s message waits underneath his thumb. _Where are you?_ The words barely register; his eyes dart to catch the movement as the weak shapes of his and Peter’s shadows peel apart when the boy steps back.

 

“I’m distracting you.” He hands Killian the now-stub of his cigarette back, ash scattering from its tip as it swaps hands. “I’ll let you get to your work.”

 

Whatever unnamed joy he’d experienced earlier is utterly diminished now, his expression cool as he shoves his hands in his pockets. Somehow, Killian feels guilty watching him go. “Wait.”

 

He follows with trepidation weighting his heels, pulling the scarf from his neck. Wintry cold rushes eagerly at his throat, icy flakes peppering his bare flesh. It doesn’t matter- he won’t be outside much longer and Peter looks frozen, too pale. “Put this on. That bloody hat won’t do you any good.”

 

Fingers brush the ends of the scarf tentatively, curling to grasp the wool as it sways in the wind’s bluster. No smile comes this time. Killian tries not to let that bother him: he’s become alarmingly used to the relative openness of Peter’s face when it is just them two alone. With as opaque as Peter keeps his expressions when there are others or family around, the difference in his demeanor is jarring though Killian knows it should be anything but. The raw emerald cut of those eyes teems with a certain type of urgency when he looks at Killian, and for some reason it always stings to look at. He tries not to think on why.

 

The youth takes the scarf and eyes him solemnly as he winds it carefully around his neck, tucking the loose ends neatly into the collar of his sweatshirt where it peeks and bunches above his jacket. Killian can’t help himself, using his free hand to help arrange the wool to ensure Peter’s protected from the elements.

 

Peter turns his head a fraction, just enough so that the swell of his cheek brushes Killian’s knuckle. The touch can’t last long, not even a second in public: Killian lets his hand drift its projected path, assuming he’s content with the scarf’s setup because he’s too busy listening to his heart’s rush to really see how it settled.

 

As ever, Peter knows. He’s not quite smiling as he dips his head but it’s something close, letting his nose skim the pleated gray wool, daring Killian to feel that, too.

 

(He does.)

 

“You’re aware you won’t be getting this back, correct?”

 

Killian watches the wide flare of Peter’s nostrils as he breathes in the scarf’s borrowed scent. Another mistake, another part of him foolishly given and greedily taken. It doesn’t seem to bother him as much as it used to. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

Inside, David and Emma await him by the coffee machine, watching as he drains the bitter dregs from his cup and tosses it into the waste bin. Emma gives him a modest peck, attempting to burrow into his side as her father settles a packet of folders atop Killian’s desk. Stung by the cold that permeates from him, she shrinks away instantly, shivering and rubbing her arms. “Jesus, did you walk here? You’re freezing.”

 

"I drove. Had a smoke outside just now." He tries not to let his eyes stray to the window. It’s not the first time Peter has shown up here, but it’s certainly the first time he’s come so boldly in the morning. Part of him wonders if Peter is still nearby, lingering to press his nose into business that isn’t his. "Sorry, love." 

 

David flashes him a disapproving look but offers no variant of his usual reprimands. This early in the day he can't call up the energy to pretend to be concerned about Killian's health, likely. "Come on." He says. "Let's get to work, we're an hour behind schedule already." 

 

They settle around his desk for another round of coffee and sheaves of documents and documents to be reviewed, talking community events and petty thefts and the dinner party Mary-Margaret is planning and none of it has to do with Killian, not really, but he half-listens in contemplative silence as the remembered brush of touch-warmed fingers slides between his own.

 

+

 

What day is it?

 

He wonders.

 

There’s no marked calendar in this house. Is there one at the sheriff’s office? He could check the one on his phone, but his fingers are busy doing up the buttons of his shirt. It's not a pressing need, anyway.

 

It’s cold. He could stand somewhere else where it's warmer, but he’s stood near the windows and something like transfixed by the view outside. The dusking sky is purple, actually purple, and hazy. The snow-blanketed cars and rooftops are dim copies in violet and lavender, the bare trees and their branches softened in the dark. Maybe it’s the grit on the unwashed window, all that dust and the water stains from dripping snow, but he thinks he can see the flecks swimming in his eyes, colorless little nothings that glide and disappear. They could be a part of the sky, like stars passing on to who knows where.

 

Later, he can tell, the sky’s color will have rotted to that of an aging bruise. Appropriate for tonight.

 

“Killian?” Emma calls.

 

He turns halfway. His wife stands before their floor-length mirror clad in a sanguine dress, this one nearly past her knees. The one she modeled before dangles off a plastic hanger on the closet door for him to compare. She looks briefly to the mirror behind her, fixing the zipper up to her waist. “This one’s new, but I haven’t bought shoes to match yet. Maybe I still have some stashed at h- Mom’s...”

 

Killian considers her look. Neither comments on her near slip-up. He understands. When he dreams of home, it’s the shabby apartment he and Liam shared for years.

 

“The green one.”

 

Emma thins her lips, deep in thought. She watches her reflection closely, stepping this way and that to consider every angle, smoothing her hands over the fabric of her dress. He watches her hair sway and shimmer in the light, as yellow as the windows in some of the houses down the block. “Okay.” She decides, deftly peeling the dress off her body. This one she slides neatly back onto its hanger, and replaces it on the closet door’s hook as she grabs the aforementioned dress.

 

“Yeah, this one’s way more comfortable.” She crows in approval as she zips it on. The dress’s hem runs smoothly to her knees, its skirt perfectly tailored to hug her hips. It boasts no embellishments, its only remarkable attribute the sweep of its neckline dipping to bare milky slivers of the tops of her breasts. It fits her, stunning but not at all showy. She’s given her hair the usual curling treatment; he watched from the bed as she expertly ran her golden locks through the steaming rod, giving life to bouncy, darling curls like those of a doll’s.

 

Satisfied, she toes her way into her heels and slinks to join him at the window, reaching to help button up his shirt. He hadn’t even noticed he’d paused to watch her; the perfume she spritzed on earlier wafts up to him off the backs of her wrists- something with lavender, if he remembers correctly. It isn’t a particularly appealing scent this close up. Once she’s closed the last button Emma dusts off his shoulders and straightens his collar, her mouth set in that observant, careful line until she’s satisfied with his appearance.

 

“Mm.” She hums pleasantly, giving him one of her conspirator’s grins, the kind she gives Henry when she can’t bring herself to admonish his troublemaking. “Put on a green tie so we can match.”

 

“I don’t think I have one.” He admits, but they look anyway. He was right- together they discover he owns few neck ties in fewer colors. Emma selects a thin black number and has him stand still as she knots it around his throat, chastising his lack of variety.

 

+

 

They arrive at the family manse ten minutes early, shivering on the doorstep with the ivory manor looming proudly before them. The sky has purpled further yet, striking Killian with the odd urge to break open the bottle of wine he carries tucked in his arm and drink. The sounds of party within are already evident, muffled through the oak door.

 

“We should really time you guys.” Emma remarks dryly to her mother as the door swings open within seconds of her ringing the doorbell.

 

Mary-Margaret coos loving greetings as she lets them in, her cropped fringe tidily brushed, pastel colored cardigan matched to her ruffled dress. Killian feels grotesque standing next to her: Mary-Margaret is too soft, too trusting and predisposed to easy joy. She squeezes his hands, glowing with delight in hosting her daughter and son in law for dinner as if it wasn’t a monthly, almost weekly occurrence. Emma grouses to her about the weather, tossing her hair to rid it of lingering snowflakes; their damp jackets hang in the crook of Killian’s arm, refreshingly cool in comparison to the increasingly too-warm too-busy interior.

 

David appears briefly at Killian’s side, offering thanks for the wine. “Let me take that for you. I’ll catch up in a minute, I don’t want to leave Mother Superior working the kitchen alone.”

 

Mary-Margaret looks at him sidelong, her eyebrows arching. “No leather jacket today?”

 

“I don’t think I own one formal enough for the occasion.” Killian says with a practiced laugh. He remembers all too well the mockery David once made regarding his style of dress, an eternity (a year) ago when they had finally clued in Emma’s parents on the surprise engagement. Killian knows his preferred look is divisive, he’ll be the first to admit it, but it still rankles him that Emma conceded to their criticisms and requested he soften the aesthetic for her parents’ sake.

 

Emma laughs and squeezes his shoulder.

 

“He cleans up nice though, doesn’t he?”

 

It’s better to leave the chatter to them. Killian lets his focus widen to their surroundings: the tall windows shuttered away behind cream colored drapes, the elegance of the polished banister and grandiose staircase leading to the upper floors and separate wings, tasteful vintage furnishings that no doubt came along with the house as heirlooms. Though they’ve arrived early, it seems they’re among the last to arrive. Ruby lounges in the sitting room with Granny and the esteemed Dr. Hopper. Killian thinks he catches a glimpse of Graham somewhere in the mix. Regina’s laugh unfurls rich and dry from somewhere past the stylish gathering room, followed by the high pitch of Henry’s cracked, adolescent chuckle.

 

Emma’s face alights upon hearing it. She excuses herself and moves eagerly to search him out. Killian tries to quell the urge to follow after her: between Mary Margaret’s impossible cheeriness and Regina’s catty barbs, he’d rather put up with the latter but no doubt Mary-Margaret expects him to stay and help with their coats.

 

They hang the coats on the rack and move deeper inside. The electric lights in the chandeliers have been dimmed to create a cozy atmosphere. The smell of broiled meat wafts from the kitchen, the deep notes of a classical piano playlist clinging to its trails. Killian chews the inside of his cheek. He’s being ambitious enough to plan two cigarette breaks for the night, one after dinner and the second reserved for when he’s truly desperate. It won’t please his in-laws much, Emma even less, but it’s a small price to pay for his sanity.

 

A nervous talker, Mary Margaret never lets him stew in his silence for long. “Has work been okay?”

 

It’s a delicate inquiry, careful not to toe the line of coming off as nosy. She knows the close bond her husband and daughter share over their work in the local law enforcement, their combined tenacity a force to be reckoned with. Killian suspects she feels left out, and assumes the same of him. “David’s been pretty tight-lipped lately.” She smooths her pale hands down her front to discipline any wrinkles. “He’s had his nose buried in some case files all month, I almost had to drag him home today...”

 

Killian reels himself from the pleasant murmur of ambient noise. She must be referring to the case David brought up this morning. “He must be reading the kidnapping case from Portland. Their head detective seems to think if they get more eyes on the files we might find anything they overlooked.”

 

Mary-Margaret listens nods approvingly. “Smart of them to reach out. I hope it works out for them.”

 

He shakes his head. Better to talk of work than family news and gossip. “Unlikely. It’s remained an unsolved case for about two or three years now, I think.”

 

A mistake he realizes too late: _I think_. That one little uncertainty on the case details is enough that she’ll mention it out of concern to her husband later, and David will happily run with it as more fodder for their distrust of him. They both know it, immediately aware of his error: she crosses her arms awkwardly, fidgeting with her sleeves.

 

Struggling for another topic, Killian glances at the gilded clock on the mantle. It’s eight-thirty. There are a few guests missing still- the tell-tale gaps in the crowded quilt’s stitches. He can’t lie to himself that he’s been scanning the faces that pass for a particular one. “Who else is coming tonight?”

 

“Gold said he’d be running a bit late, but he promised he’d send Peter ahead of him. Lacey, too. Leroy called and said he couldn't make it.”

 

Mary-Margaret’s mouth flickers slightly as she utters the young woman’s name. Clearly she doesn’t approve of Lacey’s presence in her self indulgent little social gathering, a sentiment Killian knows is shared amongst some of the family. It’s really no business of his, but he’s never felt more uncomfortable watching the active ostracizing of someone so...pathetic. A kinder word would be undeserving, but the one time he remembers the young woman meeting his gaze he hardly saw anything alive enough in her eyes to indicate she possessed any desire to fight back at the criticisms.

 

 _A woman unwilling to fight for what she wants deserves what she gets._ He supposes that’s the way of things in these social circles. Old families with old money refusing to accept what’s not close enough to their own origins. Reeling the doe eyed thing in with warm words and casting underhanded snubs over dinner and behind closed doors.

 

Unbidden the thought of Peter’s fingers sliding between his in a tentative grasp jumps to mind, the ghost-touch of it vivid enough in the webbing between his fingers that they twitch suddenly in a knee-jerk reaction. The memory has remained stubbornly in the back of his skull since Peter visited him at work. It’s not what he’d call reminiscing, but the sensation simply won’t go forgotten. He’s not convinced it’s something upon which he can slap the label of lasting discomfort. Self-awareness, yes- paranoia in regards to being caught hand in hand with Peter outside his work station, yes. It’s more than that, a type of recognition as tart on his tongue as a fresh grape- maybe Peter’s fingers, slim and long, had reminded him of Emma’s--?

 

It doesn’t seem right, but it’s the best explanation he has.

 

Keenly aware of Mary-Margaret peering at him in confusion of his sudden lapse into silence, he breaks from the reverie and excuses himself to pass deeper into the house for distraction.

 

+

 

They seat him between Emma and Regina- a placement that keeps him somewhat amused throughout the dinner. Who decided on the seating arrangements this time? They must be mad if they think him a suitable enough buffer- Archie would have been a better fit. Henry sits across from him and makes few, stilted efforts at engaging Killian in conversation, clearly put up to the task by his mother. He has made his dislike of Killian clear in the past; Killian wishes he could do likewise. He has never been fond of children.

 

Gold hasn’t yet arrived, but as promised Lacey and Peter have arrived in his place. They sit further down the table’s length accompanied by Graham and Mother Superior: Lacey sits somewhat timidly with a hunch to her shoulders disclosing her unease; Peter sits straight-backed and serious, sipping his water casually as David busies him with questions of school.

 

It’s always strange seeing Peter in a formal, familial setting: his countenance as cooly composed as a marble bust, no visible annoyance in his brow even though Killian knows with certainty that Peter hates these get-togethers with unbridled passion. It’s a stark contrast to every time the boy manages to corner him alone in a pocket of stolen time, whether it be seconds or hours. There is always something wild to Peter’s look then, glittering dangerously in the darks of his eyes. Even in the ‘safer’ moments like this it feels a risk to so much as glance at him: Killian tears his gaze away, grabbing for the stem of his wine glass.

 

There’s no talk of work. It’s not a table rule or propriety thing: they merely talk of family, of each other, themselves:

 

Henry is struggling miserably in his science class and doesn’t think he’ll pass, but he dislikes the idea of spending his evenings in the school lab for tutoring. Shocked that Henry hasn’t told her of this sooner, Regina offers her assistance, citing a lengthy history of her studies and proficiency in science and chemistry: “I _am_ the one who signed you up for the advanced course, after all, it’s only fair I teach you everything I know.” She gives her adopted son what she thinks is a winning smile, though Henry’s obvious bitterness at the well-disliked subject keeps him from returning the sentiment in full.

 

Emma is tired after work but waves off her mother’s suggestion of retiring early to nap in a guest room. She only picks at her meal, favoring the tomato soup, and bristles slightly when Mary-Margaret suggests she may be coming down with a cold. Killian doesn’t interfere, knowing his any input will be glossed right over. He busies himself with eating as Emma finally stirs to settle her mother’s concerns, failing to mask the lethargic slur in her voice. “ If I don’t feel better after dinner I’ll go lie down, okay?”

 

Ruby sings praises about a new boyfriend who brings her little boxes of sweets at work; Granny passes her scathing judgement with conviction. Lacey is a good enough actress when she cares to commit to it, pushing her fingers through Peter’s hair in a practiced motherly fashion to keep it from falling into his eyes as he stares impassively at his phone.

 

The eating goes by slowly; the maids clear away the dishes once they’ve finished, and the party splinters and moves to the sitting room for more wine and conversation.

 

Graham reels him into generic small talk that progresses to discussion of a TV show ( Killian himself has no taste for it, but Emma makes him sit with her to watch every week when it airs). Regina passes by from time to time with her usual classy snark and statuesque Madam Mayor smile, at one point toting along the tiny Mother Superior on her arm and discussing fundraiser plans. Sidney, who arrived late from the Daily Mirror offices, follows her devotedly, juggling wine glasses and his work camera.

 

The first cigarette break doesn’t last long, just as he expected. He’s used to rushing them when they’re visiting Emma’s parents, of course: there’s always guests at this house, longtime friend-and-locals. Always someone wanting friendly conversation or advice (or worse, both), always someone wanting to know when there’ll be a baby.

 

This time it’s Emma who comes to fetch him, crinkling her nose and fanning his smoke away. “Come inside, Dad got out some rum and Henry’s showing off his Halloween costume contest pictures again.”

 

He can’t say no, enticed by the promise of rum. Emma beams, grabbing his hand to guide him back into the gathering’s folds. Behind her back, his cigarette gets put out on an icy windowsill.

 

Tumblers of scotch and whisky are making the rounds. Ice cubes clink prettily in the murmuring quiet, everyone drowsy now from the fullness of food and conversation. David pours rum into Killian’s cup with an almost exaggerated amount of exact measurement, his brow low to convey the usual _Don’t even think about asking for more._

 

Killian doesn’t care; he accepts the drink with excess brilliance to his smile and nurses it vindictively slow as the hour wears on.

 

His phone has been vibrating intermittently throughout the dinner. Amidst dinner talk he was able to ignore it, especially considering how much closer everyone was sitting. But another short pulse of his phone announces another likely message, and Killian’s never been able to tame his curiosity.

 

Killian glances casually at Emma, tilts his head like he’s listening. Graham, Ruby and Henry listen attentively, excited at Mary-Margaret’s suggestion of a holiday party hosted in the police department building. A slow, careful look around at the rest of the party reveals everyone else to be busy and content as they mingle. A crack of laughter punctuates the dull roar of multiple conversations here and there, a delicate _tnk_ of glass. David chats with Dr. Hopper as he selects another album for the record player.

 

He’s observing the rest of the party too, checking that everything is as it should be. His pale blue gaze sweeps across the bustling rooms seeming satisfied, but Killian pulls his gaze back to Emma before he and David accidentally lock eyes. Killian could be dead and rotted down to the skull and David would still find trouble in his eye sockets. It must run in the family, that unnerving alertness to mayhem. He learned that the hard way, when he used to think Emma’s boast of a _superpower_ was just that.

 

A minute passes before he allows himself to survey the room again. This time David’s back is to Killian and no one’s looking his way- perfect. He shouldn’t, and he already knows who’s responsible, but it’ll give him something to do. Killian pulls his phone from his pocket with practiced idleness and dims his screen to better cast it a surreptitious glance.

 

 **Peter:** you look like you could use some sleep.

 

 **Peter:** what idiot sat you between those two?

 

Snapchat (1)

 

 **Smee:** seen my hat?

 

He can't help chuckling, and types fast before his nerve leaves him, flashing a discreet glance around the room again once he's hit 'send' to ensure no one saw.

 

 **Killian** **(mobile)** : let’s count ourselves lucky they behaved themselves tonight.

or unlucky, I don’t know. could’ve used some entertainment over dinner.

 

The night dwindles along.

 

Does every day normally feel this endless, or is it just a proper lack of alcohol that’s fueling his building restlessness?

 

In the bathroom he takes a piss and sits on the floor for a spell with his back to the claw-footed bathtub. He’s slightly cross he forgot his flask in a different jacket at the house- he’d taken care to wash and refill it this morning in preparation for the dinner party and here he is now, not even a little buzzed from three glasses of wine and a paltry drop of rum.

 

Maybe he can steal himself a refill. If David decides to throw a fit, well. Killian wouldn’t exactly argue against being thrown out.

 

Once he’s back downstairs he’ll tell Emma he’s exhausted and turn in for the night in their guest bedroom. There’s not much more socializing he can take tonight- a few guests have left already, but the continued sounds of voices drifting up the stairs have him closing his eyes briefly, summoning the strength to endure a little longer. He opens his eyes an indeterminate amount of time later when his phone buzzes quietly.

 

 **Peter (mobile)** : are you in hiding again? tell me where.

 

 **Killian** **(mobile)** : not even remotely a good idea right now lad

 

He returns to the party, and lasts another twenty minutes before the restlessness comes tugging on his mind again. Killian’s already excused himself and is en route to his second cigarette break when David jogs after him, calling his name. “Can we talk?”

 

‘We’ ends up being the entire adult half of the party huddled outside on the veranda. A hushed quiet of intrigue hovers around the mass of cold guests. Killian doesn’t miss the fact they all seem to have been allowed to fetch their jackets first while he was corralled outdoors without his. Just as he’s turning to slip back into the house and fetch it, Emma spots him. She shuffles past the remaining guests and wraps her arms around his middle, stepping comfortably into his chest. It’s a poor imitation of a jacket, but it’ll do: he sets his arms around her in return, the two of them huddled privately at the back of the crowd.

 

Emma exhales a shuddering breath and hops foot to foot. The cold seems to have done its part in waking her up a bit: her eyes are clearer now without the blurred haze of fatigue, her cheeks flushed. If Killian were a good husband he would insist she take tomorrow off to recover from whatever temporary fatigue afflicted her, but he quite likes his nights home alone while she’s working overtime. “You know what’s going on? Dad told us all to be quick and had me tell Peter and Henry to go upstairs.”

 

Upstairs.

 

It’s fortunate they’re in the dark and out in the cold so Emma can pass off his shudder as a chill.

 

He still dreams of that dark hall with its red-lit walls and the immense shadow that passed through it, the soft lips rubbing at his throat. “He didn’t say.”

 

Regina approaches with her hands in her pockets, chin tucked into the high collar of her peacoat where the black swath of her scarf shields her from the cold. She looks irritable, glancing up at the windows as if she can discern from their dark facades which one holds her son. “Mrs. Swan, do go and tell daddy dearest to get on with...whatever he’s got us out here for.” She casts a mildly accusing look over her shoulder to where David stands huddled with his wife apart from the group, the two clearly discussing something serious. “I fear we’ll all freeze to death before he gets started.”

 

Emma stiffens in his arms, readying for a retort. Killian attempts to calm her with a press of his hand to her lower back, urging her to forget it. He’s not in the mood to hear squabbling in this cold, but if he’s honest with himself he’s half amused and half annoyed by their healthy rivalry. Since Emma’s appointment as sheriff it’s been tireless feuding between the two, with Regina slyly raising concerns of nepotism within the local law enforcement and Emma rising fast to the bait when her temper bests her. Then there’s Henry- Emma seems prone to running into him no matter where she is, so much so that Killian wonders if she goes looking for him intentionally. With as protective as Regina is of her son it only worsens their many altercations.

 

“It’s Swan-Jones, Regina.” Emma bites back hotly, refusing to let it lie. Regina wrinkles her lip a little. Her eyes dance when she has Emma fuming.

 

“Sorry dear, that’s a little too saccharine for my palate.”

 

“Bloody hell.” Killian grunts, tightening his grip on Emma’s waist as she tries to step forward, half lunging. He manages to wrest her a few steps back, doesn’t let go until Emma’s relaxed a little in his grip, rallying herself. “No fighting, ladies.” The words are too often on his tongue. It’s a travesty: he remembers a time when any scene of two women fighting held more allure to him than this. He cracks his cheerfully lecherous grin to disarm them. “Unless it’s over me of course, then you have my delighted permission.”

 

Regina’s flat smile is perfectly lipsticked in burgundy. The old scar slashed across her upper lip has always intrigued Killian: it fits her far too well, the undisguised line of it certainly no innocent childhood scratch. Can the others see it too, that threat of ruthlessness sparking in her eyes when she smiles? He’s sure of it. The Madam Mayor eyes his wife critically, then drags her eyes back up to Killian. Perhaps he imagines it but her gaze turns less challenging when it settles on him, less of that gunpowder _I dare you_ flaming in her eyes. “Not to worry, dears, I wouldn’t dream of harming any of my constituents.” She shows her hands opened palms up and level with her shoulders, but she’s too composed for it to be the _oops_ gesture she probably intended. “I was just having a little fun.”

 

“Mhm.” Emma drones, unconvinced. Her tone suggests she’s ready to air out some more grievances, but to his relief she merely takes his arm and pulls, aiming to push past Regina in a physical exit from the conversation. “Killian, let’s-”

 

“I’m going to keep it short.”

 

The three of them fall silent, heads turning to where David has approached the small crowd. His voice is just loud enough for them to hear, muffled by the night wind lazily buffeting them. Safe in his expensive down jacket, he pauses to let Mary Margaret join at his side, her features grave. “I’m sorry to have asked you all out here in this weather, but we didn’t want to risk the kids eavesdropping. Less chance they’ll hear us out here with all this wind, but I’m still going to keep my voice down so if you can’t hear, move up.”

 

Some do, and the small crowd adjusts. Emma grabs Killian’s hand and wades them into their midst, cutting a wide path around Regina.

 

David waits for them all to settle, doing a silent headcount and glancing at the glass sliding doors of his home, then the many windows overhead, before continuing. “I don’t know how many of you have been keeping up with local news. Some of you may have heard this already. We’ve caught wind of three separate murders in the past two months. Two in the inner city and one in our outer suburbs. No evidence, no suspects. We’re not classifying this as serial work just yet, but I’m just letting you all know now because I’m starting to worry this is going to get big.”

 

The guests’ confused murmurs turn to a stunned hush. Killian glances at Emma, his shock only mounting when he realizes her expression mirrors his own. How has David not told them about this? More than anything he’s surprised that _Emma_ doesn’t know, Emma who spends so much of every day at work with her father.

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Regina thunders from beside Killian, startling several and turning heads. A look of genuine incredulity has overtaken her face; he’s uncertain what she’s more astonished by, David’s deceit or the information he has just shared with his guests. “How am I just hearing about this now, Nolan? Need I remind you what my fucking job title is?”

 

David’s pale eyes shut closed for a second. Did he choose not to tell her, or had he assumed she’d already been notified of the grisly news? There’s no turning back, however: he opens his eyes again to address her, one big hand settling on Mary Margaret’s shoulder instinctively. “Regina, please. It’s out of our jurisdiction, they were just passing the details on to our precinct. I assumed you knew.”

 

That does little to settle Ms. Mills’ outrage. She pushes her way through the crowd, snarling; Lacey practically leaps aside to make way for her. “How the _hell_ is it-”

 

“Regina would you _wait_ and let me explain the thing, for Christ’s sake--!”

 

The determined patience in David’s face has sapped out abruptly with the weight of his grievous error sinking in. The resulting expression is so unlike him that Killian nearly barks with laughter: quickly he turns his face away to smother the chortles threatening to rip up his throat. It nearly escapes him entirely he’s so amused, but Emma is snuggled too close for him to get away with it, already looking up at him in concern. Killian recovers with a feigned, throaty cough into his fist and turns back to witness the grand spectacle.

 

The group of onlookers huddled on the veranda has fallen silent, all eyes on the seething mayor. She looks like she could strangle Nolan on the spot, then his wife for good measure. Killian can see her consider it briefly, her scarred lip quirking in fleeting mirth as she passes the thought by, whether out of fictional amusement or real desire. But she is Regina Mills, and she guards herself excellently in the face of dissent- the flicker of contempt is struck from her face so quickly it leaves question if it ever existed at all. She approaches David with perfect poise and stands directly before him to challenge, the only indication of her rage fuming blackly in her furrowed brow.

 

They stare each other down for a long minute before Regina deigns to reply, if it can be called that with the way her teeth show when she snarls out her command. “ _Speak_.”

 

“There’s not much to say.” Mary Margaret interjects bravely, undaunted by Regina’s fury though she regards the public face-off warily, assessing the damage done before she addresses her guests. “The most recent murder was just a few miles outside of Storybrooke. We didn’t want the kids to hear about this yet- not tonight, at least. Tonight was about family.” She lets a beat slide by, her tender smile fading. “Regina, we were going to talk to you about establishing a town-wide underage curfew.”

 

She cranes her neck, scanning the faces before her. “Lacey? I know Peter likes to be out past midnight...if you could maybe convince him to come in earlier...”

 

“I’ll talk with him.” Lacey vows. She may as well have said she’ll talk at him. Killian fights not to give too much credence to the echo of Peter’s voice in his head: _she doesn’t do anything. she just sits around sniveling and reading in bed. he tells me to call her ‘mum.’_

 

“...all the victims have been children.” David is saying when Killian tunes back in, Emma’s small twitch of shock waking him from his thoughts. More gasps from the crowd; people are shifting now in distress, the easy spell of welcoming and felicity nurtured at the dinner table now forgotten. “We’ll likely be given official statements within a week to warn schools and daycares. Ask your kids to check in with you when they’re going out, stay informed on their whereabouts.” He works out his next words with difficulty. “I’m not trying to raise any alarm. I just want everyone safe. But it’s like I said- I’m worried that if there’s another victim and state police finally clue us all in all hell’s going to break loose.”

 

He nods at Regina tiredly. “Questions?”

 

She gives a dry laugh. “How about a _threat_ , Nolan. If you ever keep information like that from me again I’ll have you and your daughter fired for incompetence and negligence.”

 

Mary Margaret’s cherubic face roughens at the slight to her family. She holds up a hand as if that alone will stay the whip of Regina’s tongue. “Okay, that was-”

 

“No, I’m on her side.” Emma interjects suddenly.

 

More shock ripples through the crowd, heads swiveling. Killian’s brows arc upwards in surprise as Emma slowly disentangles herself from him, moving to join the discussion with a stiff frown toward Regina. The two women share a look of bafflement in knowing, for once, they stand on the same side. Emma gives her father a wounded look, actually incredulous he has kept something from her. “Dad, you don’t keep things like this from anyone, no matter what the cops tell you. Regina should’ve been the first person you informed. Me too- you made me sheriff, remember?”

 

Killian’s never seen David look so sufficiently cowed. _Now_ he feels drunk, though it’s not because of the alcohol he consumed tonight: giddy, almost disbelieving of the gift that is this public quarrel, he bites the insides of his cheeks to resist the grin threatening to curve his mouth.

 

“Like I said: I didn’t want to freak anyone out, but I get it. I realize I messed up. I’m sorry.” David’s backpedaling now, thoroughly chagrined but Emma and Regina press on with their reproach, and more voices rise as guests raise queries of their own.

 

Killian stops listening, satisfied with the show. He peels unnoticed from the crowd, fishing in his pocket for the carton of cigarettes.

 

He’s doesn’t expect it to be over soon. Even outside in the damnable cold everyone wants a chance to talk to David and wring more details out of him. It’s terrible news: gruesome crimes like this tend to pass Storybrooke by in a wide swath, he has noticed. It’s never made much sense to him: what serial killer worth his salt would pass up the chance to terrorize a small town unnoticed by virtually everything and everyone around it? Passersby come and go, certainly, but they’re few and far in between. No traveler ever lingers. Locals are too kindly and too comfortable in Storybrooke’s inherent placidity. Any killer would have a field day here, whether it be a one and done situation or a long string of felled prey. It’s almost thrilling, in a macabre way: perhaps now work will be a little more interesting. Nothing like a little rumor of serial killers to liven up patrols.

 

There are no optimal spots to smoke here in the winter. In fairer weather Killian would have his pick of the garden’s many lounging spots, but with the outdoor furniture stowed away in the toolshed and most of the ground frozen over and piled high with snow he's left to ambling aimlessly along the half shoveled paths. Lighting a fresh stick takes multiple attempts to the point that he nearly gives up in frustration, until he remembers this is perhaps the first and only time he’s ever going to get away with smoking on the family grounds. A few more attempts and finally his icy hands are successful, and Killian commemorates the rare sight of David Nolan eating his own words with a long, indulgent drag.

 

Gold arrived at some point during the heated discussion. Standing with his back to the guests, Killian only notices by mistake: he’s tapping ash into the wind, glancing over his shoulder to see if the arguing is done only to find the spindly man standing cocksure amongst them. Feet planted, one hand settled atop the polished handle of his cane and the other around Lacey’s waist, Gold observes the party with the vague interest of a true neutral party. Inevitably, his scanning gaze meets Killian’s.

 

Gold nods curtly, and Killian lifts his hand in passive greeting.

 

After both have looked their own ways again Killian sighs out a stream of smoke, longing for the bed awaiting him upstairs. The day has kept him too long- there is so much he would give right now to be already asleep in the clutches of any warm bed. He’s nearly forgotten the cold at this point, though his body remembers it now and then in irregular tremors that plead for him to head back inside. When he looks up it’s the sky he means to inspect, curious to see if it ever reached that mottled bruise color, but the clouds block it up behind them selfishly as the dying winds roll them along at a gradual creep. Instead he catches sight of a face in one of the windows overhead, still and intent.

 

He doesn’t greet this one, too wary of the night’s surprises, but the boy smiles sweetly at him, his face softly blurred in shadow as he sips from a silver flask.


End file.
